300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #23 -- VICTORY TO DROFLET!

[LittleStar]

A Warrior’s Burden


“You just exist.
You sleep and eat.
A fuzzy, cute, ball of fluff,
but why’d your species even evolve feet?”



You say these things
everyday;
plop food in my bowl and spirit away.
You leave me
on guard, patrolling our grounds.
It’s not like it’s easy
when you’re not around.

If you knew of the nightmares
I keeps from our doors,
knew of the beasts
I has to cleans from these paws,
would you serves extra dinners and/or treats?

Not bloody likelys! cause I’s lazy,
‘I just sleeps. I just eats.’


If that’s all I did we’d be overruns;
by Nasties and Howlers,
and worstly that jet-white dragon.

I know you watch from the window and thinks
I’m off to bushes or trees to sleeps,
but if you cared to asks you’d knows
I sneaks,
I creeps,
and listens for Terrors
that scurries for your feets.
And if all I did was sleeps
while you were tucked snugsly in beds,
you don’t even wants to knows
how many Webbers would touch your head.

So, yes I gets tireds
cause you’re not around,
you’re not here to helps
so I has to acts
like Sheriff Cat is in towns.


And just what do you do’s
when you head aways?
Maybe you go finds a comfy chair to sleeps away the days,
then returns with foods and yummy
nip treats,
to make it looks likes you’ve been more busy than me.


But you ever thinks what I go through when alones?

You leaves me waiting.
From nines to fives,
I watch and worry the window
till you chugs homes down the drives.
You opens the door
and I don’t chastise.
I says hello, glad you’re home,
then I thanks my white whiskers that you’re safes, you’re alives.

 

[Vaz]

The Watcher & The Night Walker


Szen hid his face as the moonlight spread across the dirt like a pale tongue. He hefted his pack across his back, smiling at the birds perched upon the twisted limbs of a tree; singing of the night and gifts to come.

He passed a few stragglers wearin' the masks of drink as he headed for the Golden Boar tavern. The lock picked in a snip, his heart a flutter as he crept into the cellar.

His fingers crawled spider-like across the shelves. Plucking two rounds of hard bread, a tartan blanket and a small bottle of Madra from them and placing them in his pack.

Musn't take too much. Jus' what's needed.

He teased the handle gentle like, the wood givin' a low croak.

"Stop. Thievin' urchin!"

Szen spun around. The owner stalked down the steps with his sword. "Sir please, don' want no trouble 'ere."

"No trouble eh? I'll 'ave your ******* head!" The man lunged, Szen stumbled backwards dropping his pack. He couldn't leave without it, they needed it.

Szen dodged, he didn't want to do it, never did. But he could feel that cold creep into 'im, like worms on a winter's grave. He knew the making of all things.

In the shadows of his mind the mans life blazed like a star. A tapestry of uneven and unfinished threads, woven into a frail web. Szen gritted his teeth, pulling each one until it came undone. Until it was broken.

Szen stepped over the mans broken body and into the damp street air. He stared longingly at gloom filled alleys.

Them Lil' ones will go hungry tonight.



He reached home and seated himself; grimacing at his reflection in the glass.

Dawns fangs pierced the sky and he began to harden.

 

[Zoe Mackay]

Between

Last night, I dreamt the man in the window.

I was five the first time I saw him, which means Scott was seven. That seems right. It was a family holiday to Cornwall, or maybe Devon. In Devon I gashed my knee in the garden, so probably Cornwall.

We were exploring the village, a tiny place clinging to a cliff face – steep narrow streets with whitewashed walls and fierce salted wind, when we saw him.

He was our secret, until Scott was eighteen and started denying he ever existed. But I still dream him.

At an alley end stood a cottage, almost a ruin, paint flaking and the blue door faded from eggshell to powder and hanging half-rotten from rust-jammed hinges. It smelt of adventure.

We approached. I wanted to hold Scott’s hand, but that would mean admitting I was scared.

“Scott, I’m scared,” I said, guaranteeing he wouldn’t stop until we’d at least touched it.

We crept closer, listening, looking, heartbeats and footsteps claxoning our presence.

A shaft of sunlight, bursting through cloud-crack, fell onto the window, and I saw his face clearly, twisted rage etched over agony, mouthing unintelligible words. I yelled, and would’ve run, but Scott was somehow gripping my hand, and he dragged me forward, barging through the crumbling door.

After, he claimed I dragged him, but he was lying.

The cottage was empty. Nothing but dust and cobwebs. No sign of him. I looked through the window and it was just grime-smeared glass.

I’ve dreamed him for years. Not every night, but weekly. Each time slightly differently. I’ve only been able to make out one word. “Help”.

I finally know how to find him; free him. I’ve sharpened my knife. If I cut carefully enough, I can find the place between.

 

[HazelRah]

Detached


I haven't always been like this, tired and worn, peeling at the edges. I was young once, and eager to see the world that wandered past my window.

I used to be full of life, enjoying every little bump and scrape along the way. I was surrounded by small children, love and warmth. Such gleeful squeals as they tug at the family dog turned quickly into teenage frustrations and the slamming of doors. Yet through it all, I kept the scratches of pencil on the kitchen walls, proof of their existence as they have come and gone.

There have been times when parts of me have needed mending and replacing, just a little makeup to hide my jaded exterior. But despite the quiet erosion I feel weakening my bones, I am still the same old me. Although I don't recall at what point I became old.

It's just us two left now, somber and deafened by the solitude echoing between these walls.

And it is in the chill of winter that I see you standing by the window. You stare out onto the world like a weary traveller, and I know our time is coming to an end. I have seen so much change and so much joy and pleasure in our lives... it's such a shame that it will end like this.

I feel your hand on the wall of my heart as you clutch at your own. The loneliness I have felt with you around will be nothing compared to when you're gone. When I will be left here, waiting for my time to come; for my age to finally defeat me, and my broken foundations to turn me to rubble. Waiting an eternity.
Waiting alone.

I wish I could say I'm not scared.

 

[Shyrka]

Of Matters Darke

Genni turned the shard over in her hands. Its obsidian sheen flickered in the torchlight, scattering meaningless fragments of colour. She turned in her hands, trying to find her reflection. Here and there – fleeting moments of clarity, snatches of… something? It hovered just out of sight. Maybe if…?

The hair on the back of her neck prickled, as if phantom lips hovered close.

Genni...

“Genni?”

Hendri’s voice snatched at her attention. How long had she been staring? The shard was nothing but a glossy void.

Let us get a look at you…

“Where did you get this?”

“Maarkus brought it back from one of his ‘trips’. Said it was from some mage’s tower he found.”

Genni snorted. Of course it was. Maarkus’ tales were legendary.

Hendri cleared his throat, his hand outstretched.

---

Rotted oak moaned in protest as she crossed the floor, treading carefully on the weather-ravaged boards. The tower was dark, the flickering lantern light chasing shadows across the chamber.

The shard dug into her palm, clutched so firmly that it cut her flesh. Warm blood seeped around it, mingling with the crusted remnants of Hendri’s. Chills gripped her. Her heart pounded.

Just one look. Just to steady her nerves.

We’re almost there. Shhh...

Genni let out a murmur and laid the lantern down on a grime-crusted table, disturbing a layer of sticky, fetid dust. On the table lay an open book, a tome of some kind, moldering away in the gloom. Its pages black with age, she could just make out a spidery script:

...seem to be acting as some sort of conduit, for what I cannot fathom. The Matters Darke are unlike anything I have studied...

This was the place.

Genni lifted the lantern to banish the shadows.

The shadows smiled back.

Welcome.

 

[Mr Orange]

The Shaggimulloo


Beware the shack at the end of the street,
All you boys, girls and adults too.
For if you visit you will surely meet
That horrid being, the Shaggimulloo.


He has impossibly big, pointy ears,
Fiery red eyes and a purple nose.
Razor sharp teeth and hair everywhere,
And a vile stench that would wilt a rose.


With his thumpa held ever so tight
He sits behind grimy glass.
Ready to deliver an almighty smite
To any who dare venture past.


He needs you, you see,
Well your body at least,
To cook up tea
For all his pet beasts.


Your eyes he will boil
For the lizardy Gangill.
For the bird-like Teeproil,
It'll be toes on the grill.


The sawtoothed Krakein
Loves salted liver,
And fried intestines
Make the Shroodip shiver.


To make bolognaise for his herd of Eegreeps,
The rest will be minced, except for your head.
That's his, along with some blood that he'll keep,
To make head stew, blood soup and brain bread.


Doesn't he sound terrible, this Shaggimulloo?
A horrible monster with an evil heart.
He'd love to do awful things to you,
Harvesting you for your body parts.


Of course your parents say none of it's true,
It's perfectly safe to go out and play.
They say that there's really no danger to you,
They shush you and tell you to please go away.


It's just old man Smith at number nineteen,
A lonely pensioner who won't cause you harm.
But you think that maybe they're in on the scheme,
When the Shaggimulloo starts to saw off your arm.

 

[The Judge]

More Letters from Merlyn’s Mage School


To All Parents

I write qua Acting Headmaster in the temporary
absence of Professor Hummingbird in order to
clarify reports regarding recent incidents.

Deerest Mother,
Just a swifft note to say me and Jack are well and still here so, no neede to worry.​

Whilst Phalarope Cottage has indeed been
displaced following unauthorised castings of
expulsive spells, no pupil or Daemon was then
in its vicinity and none has been affected.
Investigation has uncovered evidence
of a pupil’s experimentation into expulsive
energies. However, further action must await
Professor Hummingbird’s return.

The cotttage was acttually where we’d hidd the last seede cake you sent. I’d a picknick planned for there but, the cotttage vanished before me and Jack arrived. Jack sez Martyn Aigle and his Erne must of boobby-trappped it for a larkk, though I wouldn’t of thought they was clever enough, knot like Jack is. But, he sez Prof Dotterrel had an annonnymouse tip-off and founnd researrch notes stuffed in their matttress.​

I have spoken to Señor Jynx Torquilla of the
Spanish Assembly of Mages and am assured
the cottage will be returned once they reach
its present location in the Sierra Nevada
mountains. Professor Hummingbird is well,
though understandably rails at the
perpetrator of this practical joke.

Prof Humminnbirde sez he was lurred to the cottage but, Jack sed someone must of told him re the seede cake and he planned robbbin it from us. But, we was the only ones who knewe, so I sed who could of told him? Jack juss tappped his beak.​

Faithfully yours
Godwit Garganey
Professor Emeritus Esoterica & Wiccan
Incantatory Talismans

Yore loving son, J Daw
PS As Jack sez “Once bittern, twice smittern” so pleese send annother seede cake. A larrge one. We’ll have to share it with Prof H.

​

 

[mosaix]

In Two Minds?

"There's someone at the door."

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Again? You can't keep ignoring people. Go on, answer it."

"No. I'm doing nothing."

"But you don't know who it is."

"Don't care."

"It might be the postman."

"Can't be. You know no one ever writes."

"At least have a look. Go on. Through the window."

"Might see me. They'll know someone's in. Then they'll never go."

"Just peek through the gap in the curtains. They won't notice you. Then you can decide."

"Best not."

"You don't have to let them in. You could just talk on the doorstep."

"No. Never was good at talking."

"They've knocked again. Have a look. What harm can it do? At least you'd know who it was. There – I knew you wanted to. She looks quite nice."

"So?"

"She can't do any harm can she? You know, it'd be nice to have a visitor or two every now and then. It gets quite lonely, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes."

"Go on. Open it. You know you want to. See what she wants. I promise I won't interfere."

"That's what you said last time and the time before. And about Mary."

"I was right about her! She wasn't good enough for you. And she was carrying on behind your back."

"So you said."

"Someone had to tell you, no one else would. I'm your only friend. I've always been there for you."

"Some truth in that..."

"Anyway that's all in the past. She'll go if you don't answer the door soon."

"Promise me you won't interfere?"

"I promise."

"Can I trust you?"

"If you can't trust me who can you trust?"

"Well, okay. Maybe if I just open the door a crack..."

"The axe is in the corner by the way..."

 

[Mad Alice]

Teddy's Magic Picnic



Dierdre never truly meant to lock the Wizard in her Dollhouse and Banish him to the Faerie Hill, trapped forever. But it's difficult to control yourself when you are Three (and a half) and a Nasty Wizard gate crashes your Teddy Bear's Picnic, displaying a vile temper, screaming at Dierdre.

It wasn't Dierdre's fault the Wizard had lost his Magic Hat whilst dragon riding. Said Hat decoratively draping itself over the rhododendron bushes just when Deirdre had been chauffeuring Teddy about the yard on her little pink tricycle.

Mommy and Daddy had said, after all, when Simon, her big brother, had thrown his cricket bat into the willow tree, and Dierdre had borrowed it for Teddy's canoe while playing "Great Explorers of Antarcticamericafricstralia", (Geographical idiosyncrasies bowing down to Great Explorers like Dierdre and Teddy, of course), that "If Simon was Not Taking Care Of His Things, He Would Forfeit Them!" and she and Teddy had kept their canoe.
Precedent had been set. Deirdre at Three was not to be swayed by feeble logic, and both she and Teddy had glared fiercely at the fuming Wizard.

"BLAST!" the Wizard exploded, "To the Outer Circles of Beyond with you!" His Hat, now called upon, responded a little too enthusiastically, immediantly blasting said Wizard into the unsuspecting Dollhouse, and that Dollhouse into the midst of a very smelly Faerie swamp two ogres were using for a footbath.

"Imagine that Blighter after my hat!" Teddy sniffed. Dierdre seconded her now Real Bear's sentiments with a fierce nod.
Dolly and Soldier, the other picnic guests, arose from the teeny tea table, sadly tsk-tsking, "Wizard should know better" Soldier declared.
They recovened the picnic aboard the fourteen foot flying canoe. Simon was definitely not getting his cricket bat back.

 

[TheDustyZebra]

None but fools would keep


My life has shrunk to this cabin.

Once, I was friend to kings. I traveled the world and was welcomed in the houses of the beautiful people, and the most powerful wizards.

That is my curse, and my blessing.

For one, I gathered herbs in the Amazon and was given a potion in return: elixir of life. Now, hundreds of years later, I sit here in this cabin and wait for Amazon to deliver potions to ease my pain.

I can’t even keep track of them, but I must. If I forget to order something, that’s days of suffering I must endure.

That time I hiked Mt. Everest and got frostbite in my feet? That hurts so much worse after two hundred years. Eight ingredients I have to get for the cream, along with a new pot to cook it in.

Battle wounds. Don’t even talk to me about battle wounds. Friends of kings often find themselves charging madly off on horseback for something or other. And being carried home on your shield isn’t all crying damsels and roses. Five more ingredients for the agony of those injuries. And another new pot.

Comfrey, and tansy, and rue. Soaps, beeswax, essential oils. And thank the gods for modern medicines for all manner of pain. And it’s not just bodily pain, after all these years; the mind hurts, too. I know each and every life I’ve taken in this lifetime of mine, in this heart that just keeps on beating, on and on.

I know children come to peek in at the windows, and they think me a crazy old man, hideous, frightening thing. They should see me before all my medicines. They should have seen me in the bloom of my youth.


Ahh, a knock at the door. There’s my box.

 

[Dan Jones]

Dada Daddy-O

I first met Calvados at a post-Dadaist antifolk festival outside Blubberhouses. Something about him – the anger in his beard, the whelkberry stains on his gusset, and the dozens of Cobra beer bottles clanking behind him, tethered to his belt by a bit of string like a convoy of husky corpses – made me dislike him.
I put down my Cardboard joint (my dealer assured me it was a hybrid 5’-trimethylammonium delta-8-tetrahydrocannibinol, but I suspected it was really an old Amazon box he’d spray-painted and shredded. But damn it was a sweet high!), and shouted, “Oi! What’s your game?”

He stopped, looked at me, slowly raised his fist, extended his middle finger, and said, “Bargh! Nng fnnurr, boo… fintangolees!”​

That was too much. I leapt from my deck chair and thrashed him about the head and shoulders with much vigour, until he cried mercy. I released him, but not before swiping his array of spiderwebbed beer bottles, which I eagerly tied to my waist as a symbol of my conquest.

~​

Next time I seen Calvados were at this corporate fundraiser for victims of property depreciation in Brazzaville. Across the ballroom our eyes meets, and he threwed me a distasteful look, and four and twenty punkbirds flew from his beard!
Enraged, I flew across the room and kicked and beat him, and tore his beard from his face. As security tossed me into the bins out back I taped the loser’s whiskers to me cheeks as another sign of victory.

~​

I ain’t seen him since, but me looks tough. Him beers go clank clank clank behinds me. Fnur fnur! Itchy beard.
At a silent poetry reading in Islington I sees some geez givin me dirty looks doe. Give him the finger. Fink he want fight. Fintangolees!

 

[Ursa major]

​

Trapped…
And Rescue’s Doubtful, I Suspect
​

Don’t tell it I told you – it’s temperamental at the best of times – but this damn machine is always going wrong. This time it’s worse: the door’s jammed shut.

I know that sounds trivial, but then you’re not familiar with this kind of door. It’s soundproof, in a very particular, and most inconvenient, way. Of course it is: it’s designed specifically to keep out those like me.

I’ve tried catching people’s eye through the window. (Strangely enough, the window is new.) Okay, doing so is rather pointless – none of them would be able to get in even if the door was working – but what else can I do? There’s a remote chance that, should news of my predicament reach the right people, help of some sort might materialise. (No there isn’t: if they eventually get to know, they’d have rescued me by now.)

When passers-by do notice me, they quickly turn away and hurry off. I’ve no idea why. As (boringly) usual, I’m in the middle of London where, in my experience, no one bats an eyelid at even the strangest of apparitions. But one sight of my friendly face and they’re gone.

Those still passing through my field of vision seem unnaturally attached to the fronts of the buildings on the other side of the road. It’s as if using the whole width of the pavement is forbidden. They scuttle along, forcing themselves not to look my way.

There’s a knock at the door. Should I tell them I can’t open it?

“Anyone at home?” A woman’s voice. It sounds rather uncompanionable.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

“Aren’t you in there?” She breaks into a laugh.

What’s she talking about? “Yes, I am. But who are you?”

“Haven’t you missed me?” she answers, rather too masterfully.

Damn!

​

 

[Ursa major]

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